


Considerations Upon a Lecture

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Affection, Finger Sucking, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hand & Finger Kink, Kissing, Love, M/M, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 23:00:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3627534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moran is fixated on Moriarty – on his voice, on his hands, simply on him – even to the extent of sneaking into the professor’s lectures sometimes to listen to his voice and to watch him. This does not go unnoticed by the professor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Considerations Upon a Lecture

**Author's Note:**

> Basically I was watching some interviews with Jared Harris, got a little fixated on how nice his hands are and then this happened.

    “And so, the coefficient of XY…”

     The professor’s words drift in and out of Moran’s mind, his voice smooth and soft and reassuring. Precisely what he is talking about Moran neither knows nor cares; unlike most of the others in the room he has not come here to learn about mathematics but simply to listen and to observe.

     From the back of the classroom he watches the professor’s hand sweep across the blackboard, writing numbers; lines; symbols - that strange language that the colonel barely speaks appearing in white upon black in the professor’s precise hand; figures transferred from brain to board in each flurry of activity in between Moriarty turning to address some remark to his class.

    “…corresponding to the three two-element subsets of- _Mister Montgomery_!”

    Moran still takes little notice of Moriarty’s words but with the sudden change of the professor’s tone, from soft to harsh and much louder, he ceases slumping and sits up sharply, half-expecting Moriarty’s ire to be directed at him. However it quickly becomes clear to him that it is not directed towards him but at one of the more disruptive students who has been talking in a low tone to the youth seated beside him.

    Moriarty fixes his cool (though still not wholly unkind) steely-eyed gaze upon the pupil, who sits up straight and swallows nervously.

     “Did you have something to add to my lecture, Mr Montgomery?” Moriarty enquires.

    “No sir.” Aware of the eyes of the other students upon him, Montgomery flushes deeply and drops his gaze to his desk.

    “Perhaps then you wish to query some point raised?”

    “No sir.”

    “Well then, _be quiet_!”

     “Yes sir; sorry sir.” Montgomery continues to fidget under the professor’s scrutiny before Moriarty finally draws his attention off the hapless lad.

      His gaze drifts very briefly towards the back of the room, where he knows full well that – upon returning from running a vital errand for him - Colonel Moran has slunk into his customary place at the end of the row. Moran sits there, leaning back with his hat placed upon the desk in front of him. Briefly a look passes between the pair before Moran gives him a small grin and winks at him. Moriarty turns back to the blackboard, remaining perfectly composed, quite deliberately choosing not to acknowledge Moran’s presence further. He knows it would be unacceptably reckless to draw attention to the man here even if the students, on the whole, are a dull-witted lot and seem to neither wonder nor care why this strange figure slips into their lectures with Professor Moriarty from time to time. Perhaps they understand him to have vitally important business with the professor that necessitates him coming to speak to Moriarty immediately after class and do not think anything strange of this. One or two of them though are actually on reasonably friendly terms with the colonel, at least friendly enough to sneak him back to their rooms occasionally in the past for some highly illicit card games. Moriarty though had felt obliged to put a stop to this particular variety of _friendship_. The colonel’s intentions towards the young men may not be as debased as some might expect from a man with such a high libido but it still would not do to have his right hand man cheat a bunch of schoolboys with far more money than sense out of their inheritance.

     “As I was saying,” Moriarty resumes in that same soft tone as before, and Moran’s attention fades out again.

     Once more the professor’s words lap at the periphery of his consciousness, the content mattering little; only Moriarty’s voice matters to him, along with appreciating the professor’s form – what he can see of it at least. Moran greatly admires the curve of the professor’s backside and his strong thighs and shapely calves, but also his hands frequently catch the colonel’s attention, particularly when they dance across the blackboard, scribbling down numbers and formulae, or when Moriarty turns to address some point at the class and accompanies his words with gestures of his hands. Such lovely hands, Moran thinks, so smooth and soft and well-manicured save for the slight callous on his finger from a pen, though currently - when Moriarty has been engaging in his official work – there is an ink smudge upon his left palm and chalk dust on his fingers.

     Moran glances down at his own hands briefly, noting how rough and coarse they seem by comparison; how ragged his fingernails are; how his hands are far more calloused and scarred. Not that he sees anything shameful in these differences – his hands, like much else on his body, tell of the very different life that Moran has led compared to the far more bookish, intellectual Moriarty and he is not ashamed of most of that. The contrast simply interests him, as it has seemed sometimes to interest Moriarty also. There have been nights spent together where they have just _looked_ at each other, noting every physical feature; every flaw (or, that is to say, everything that might be deemed a flaw by others); learning of each others’ present and pasts alike from what is written upon their skin, although in this regard of course it is Moran, with his many scars, whose skin gives away the most. In that sense, as in many others, Moriarty still remains somewhat secretive; an enigmatic figure who Moran feels he may never fully understand, but this can only increase Moriarty’s allure for him.

     When he finally looks up he realises the class is over. Around him the students are getting up, moving to leave the room, which is generally also Moran’s cue to leave and wait outside for the professor. Today though he hears Moriarty’s voice ring out peremptorily from the front of the room.

    “Colonel, if you have a moment, perhaps you might help me carry these books?”

     Moran glances over at him and tries to suppress a small smile. “Yes sir.”

     As the pupils trickle out he saunters past them, over to where Moriarty stands at the desk scribbling something on a piece of paper. Moran finds his gaze drawn once more to the professor’s hands.

     “You are staring again, Colonel Moran,” Moriarty murmurs softly, not looking up from his writing.

    Moran draws himself up taller unwittingly, swallowing noticeably as he feels his cheeks flush slightly. “Sorry sir.”

    “What is it you have been musing on precisely?” Moriarty darts a gaze towards the door, ascertaining that the last of the students have departed. “Do you think of my hands pinning yours down, hmm?” He draws his gaze back to focus firmly on the colonel. “Or of me sliding my oiled fingers inside you? Well, Sebastian?” His voice is low but still with that careful enunciation; perfectly modulated so that Moran can hear him but nobody else may eavesdrop on such a dangerous conversation.

     “ _Christ_ ,” Moran mutters, half amused, half disbelieving, becoming thoroughly aroused, which of course is precisely the point of Moriarty’s game.

     “Or perhaps,” Moriarty continues, moving closer towards the colonel, so his shoulder brushes Moran’s and his lips are even closer to his lover’s ear. “You have been thinking of my hands wrapping around your _cock_.” He smirks as Moran’s lips part in a slight gasp at his words, and he notes with pleasure how the blush of Moran’s face creeps that bit further down his throat. The colonel’s breathing too is becoming slightly faster; slightly more erratic, even though he tries to maintain his composure, so keenly aware as he is of the inherent risk in this situation. Anyone could walk in on them still like this and though Moriarty might still appear a picture of perfect containment and self-discipline, the same perhaps increasingly cannot be said of the colonel.

     As Moran turns his face away, struggling to try to calm himself, Moriarty puts his hand beneath Moran’s chin and turns the colonel’s face back to meet his. Moran’s deep-set eyes, though they are in reality a delicate shade of blue, look dark with arousal. The colonel bites his lower lip slightly as he meets the professor’s gaze.

     “Professor,” he says, looking up into Moriarty’s own blue-grey eyes, and alongside that lust in Moran’s eyes there is pain there too. “Please, don’t.” He shakes his head from side to side.

    “Don’t what, pet?” Moriarty enquires with the perfect approximation of innocence, tilting his own head slightly; quirking an eyebrow at Moran.

    “Don’t get me excited, not here, not when… when we can’t…” Moran swallows thickly again and, despite the professor’s grasp on him, turns his face away once more. His hands clench slightly in frustration.

    “Who says, pigeon, that we cannot?” Moriarty enquires softly.

     “ _Fuck!_ ” Moran laughs after making this exclamation, and Moriarty smiles again, always amused by his lover’s comparative coarseness.

     “My sweet boy.” He runs his thumb over Moran’s lower lip with great care and tenderness. Moran’s lips, like his hands, are drier than Moriarty’s; a little rougher, but not unpleasantly so. In contrast the inside of Moran’s mouth is so wonderfully smooth and soft as he slips his thumb between the colonel’s lips, sliding it over Moran’s tongue.

     Moran’s eyes slip closed and he sucks gently, reverentially, treating the digit with as much consideration and care as if it were the professor’s prick in his mouth and not merely his thumb. He licks at the pad of the thumb, tracing its lines and whorls with the tip of his tongue, following them as he might the contours on a map. There is a slight dry grittiness from chalk dust but this is not without appeal. In fact if anything it only heightens his arousal, chalk dust being something that seems so ingrained into Moriarty’s presence; something that Moran will irrevocably always associate with him and see as a part of him, even were Moriarty to retire from teaching tomorrow and never pick up a piece of chalk again.

     Slowly, carefully, Moriarty swaps his thumb for his first finger, slipping the digit into Moran’s mouth well past the knuckle, feeling how Moran gently sucks upon this also. Moriarty withdraws it so only the tip is between Moran’s lips, then slowly, languorously, he slides it back into Moran’s mouth until his entire finger is engulfed in that warm wetness. Only then does Moran open his eyes and shift his gaze up to meet Moriarty’s, and he grins around the professor’s finger.

     Only the slightest, very nearly unnoticeable tremor in Moriarty’s gaze even hints that he is very nearly as lost as Moran now. His control is so impeccable that only Moran, only the one man in all the world who comes close to knowing the professor as well as the professor knows himself, can tell that Moriarty too is deeply aroused. Simply because Moriarty’s arousal is largely – at this juncture – cerebral and there is no corresponding telltale bulge in his trousers (unlike Moran’s) that does not make this less true.

    The professor lets out a slightly shaky breath as Moran gently takes his hand and kisses his palm, pressing his lips against it before trailing the tip of his tongue up the life line. Again for Moran there is that faint taste of chalk but also a hint of salt as he licks up the palm, up the professor’s middle finger, his gaze locked onto Moriarty’s all the while.

     “Sebastian.” Moriarty’s voice still barely quavers; anyone else might have not have noticed that faintly tremulous quality. “If you could bring these books to my study.”

     Moran hesitates and regards Moriarty with slightly narrowed eyes, before he gently lowers Moriarty’s hand, allowing the professor to withdraw it from his grasp. “Sir?”

     “ _At once_ ,” the professor says sharply, and gives Moran a meaningful look.

     Moran grins. “Yes sir.”

     The short walk to the professor’s study though is almost tortuous, feeling far longer than it truly is. At least by carrying the books Moran is able to adequately conceal his arousal behind them so long as he remembers not to lift them up too high, but the progress still feels agonising, each step causing his clothing to brush against his erection, threatening to drive him mad before he gets even half-way to the other room. He is most relieved when he is able to enter the study and dump the stack of books on the desk, dropping his hat down on top of them.

     “Have a care, Colonel; those books are very precious to me,” Moriarty chides, turning around from locking the door and advancing towards Moran.

     The colonel barely has time to turn around before Moriarty has shoved him back against the blackboard, smearing the chalked figures upon it as Moran’s jacket brushes against it. “Fuck, Profess-” Moriarty’s mouth is upon his before he can finish; Moriarty’s hand is around the back of his head and Moriarty’s tongue is pressed between his lips in a kiss that is possessive and rough and so incredibly arousing that after only a few seconds of this Moran very nearly comes.

     “Ah, ah, no, not yet.” Noting how Moran tenses, Moriarty pulls back just slightly, although he continues to cradle the back of Moran’s head, still holding him close so that for a moment their foreheads touch. “Slow down, my boy,” he says gently. Of course this is still risky, even with the door locked; even with most of the blinds drawn over the windows, which Moriarty had done earlier to keep the bright sunlight from fading some of his more fragile books. They cannot spend many hours indulging themselves as they might in the greater privacy of their home, but still, they can afford to take a little more time.

     “Yes Professor.” Moran’s breathing is still somewhat ragged and of course his erection is rather obvious, pressed against Moriarty’s hip as it is, but his willing obedience even now and his ability to calm himself so rapidly impresses the professor very much.

     “My good boy.” Moriarty draws further back from him but clasps Moran’s hand in his, leading the colonel with him as he backs towards the desk. Nudging his chair aside with his foot, he seats himself on the edge of the desk. There he places his legs slightly apart and regards Moran steadily. “If you would be so good,” he says, dropping his hands to lightly grip the edges of the desk, “as to pleasure me with your mouth.”

     Moran needs no further command; without hesitation he drops to his knees between the professor’s legs, though at first he only rests his palms upon Moriarty’s thighs, gently stroking him through his trousers. “Professor,” he says, and for a time it seems to be all he can say, speaking with such reverence, even awe, in his tone as he caresses Moriarty through his clothing still while his face is pressed close to Moriarty’s knee. “Professor.”

     “Perhaps you should…” Moriarty coughs slightly to clear his throat. “Perhaps you should remove your length from your clothing first; it would be unseemly to soil your underthings and trousers today.” For he knows his Moran well enough by now to understand that at times the colonel is able to spend without so much as a single stroke of his prick, even if Moriarty remains incapable of understanding just why this is so.

     “Yes sir.” Moran does as suggested without apparent effort, dropping his hand down to unbutton his trousers; to free his erection from the restraining layers of clothing whilst still he rests his cheek against Moriarty’s knee and looks up at him, smiling coyly. He does not though touch himself beyond this; once done his attention is focused fully on the professor, moving his hands back to Moriarty’s thighs, stroking lightly up towards his groin.

     Moran’s hand is warm but dry; his touch sure as he carefully unbuttons Moriarty’s fly and gently slips his hand inside to ease the professor’s cock out of his clothing. Moriarty is barely hard as yet, but no matter. Moran knows damned well that he is bloody good at this and that he can soon coax a physical reaction out of the professor.

     Moriarty lets his head tip back slightly, half-closing his eyes. He grips the edge of the desk a little tighter as he feels Moran’s breath against the sensitive skin of his prick, followed by Moran’s strong, ever so slightly rough palm wrapping around his shaft.

    “Sebastian,” he hisses as Moran’s mouth wraps smooth and warm and wet around the head of his cock, encompassing it without any great effort on Moran’s part, and he unwittingly bucks his hips a little. He cracks open one eye to glance down at Moran, at his lover looking so salacious; so flushed and eager; so confident in his ability to please his companion, his _master_ , even in his submission.

     For some moments though Moran simply stays there, very still, very calm, his hand wrapped around Moriarty’s shaft but barely moving it; letting the head of Moriarty’s cock rest upon his tongue, careful not to press his teeth into it. Despite his own desperation he lets the professor have time to consider the sensations; he lets him choose his own pace; he ensures that Moriarty is completely comfortable with this before he proceeds further. Only when Moriarty nods slightly does he do anything more, licking at the tip of the professor’s cock; lapping at the hint of salt he finds there, before swallowing his length down more deeply, easing back a little, then drawing it down once more. In this way he soon manages to coax a strong erection out of the professor.

     Only then does Moriarty shift one hand from gripping the desk and tangle it in Moran’s hair, pulling his head that bit closer, though the colonel needs no encouragement at all to bury his head more deeply between Moriarty’s thighs; to press his nose briefly into the curls of hair there; to breathe in the professor’s clean scent as he sucks eagerly at his cock. His eyes are closed as he makes full use of his skilful hands; his lips; his clever tongue, drawing out more saltiness which he swallows without hesitation.

     Moriarty watches this with both a strangely abstract sense of curiosity and a far more personal sense of wonderment. It is fascinating to watch his lover’s head bob between his thighs; to see how his own shaft, flushed and slick with Moran’s saliva, slides easily in and out between Moran’s now rather reddened lips; how Moran strokes the professor’s cock or from time to time moves his hand to very gently squeeze and caress Moriarty’s testicles. It is highly intriguing also to note how willing, even enthusiastic Moran is, and how _excited_ he gets while pleasuring his lover. The colonel’s prick stands stiffly between his legs as he kneels, remaining erect even though he has not touched himself all this while.

     But it is also so, so easy for Moriarty to lose himself in the pleasure of the sensations and to feel very nearly overwhelmed too by Moran’s absolute dedication not merely to successfully completing this task but to _him_. Moran’s devotion still perplexes Moriarty somewhat even now and at times it makes something seem to constrict in his chest when he thinks upon how Moran gives him so much yet asks for so little in return.

     The professor reaches now to pet Moran’s hair, smoothing it, stroking his head affectionately. Roughness will always have its place in some of their games but that is not for the here and now. He could grasp Moran’s hair tightly, painfully, and shove his length deeper into Moran’s throat, but he does not. When he does clench his fingers in the colonel’s hair it is done unwittingly and without aggression, simply because the physical sensations become too overwhelming to prevent himself from doing it, but Moran is not troubled by this. For him a little of such pain only shows he is doing well and achieving the desired result, and it can also further enhance his pleasure as the twitch of his prick seems to indicate. The colonel is just as close to the edge as the professor at this point.

     “Moran, Moran, my dear Moran,” Moriarty murmurs, nearly heedless of what he is saying. He drops both hands by his sides and grips the edge of the desk tightly again, his manicured fingers digging into the wood as he throws back his head; as he arches his back and bucks his hips forward as Moran, cradling the professor’s balls in one hand, takes Moriarty’s prick into his throat almost to the root. It is enough, it is very nearly too much, and the professor groans thickly as he comes hard into his lover’s mouth. Only a second or two later Moran’s prick also twitches again forcefully as he too climaxes.

      The first few seconds after the orgasm tears through him leave Moriarty shaky and breathless and almost oblivious to Moran’s reactions. When he regains his senses a little though he can look down and see Moran still kneeling there, his head pressed against Moriarty’s knee; one strong hand resting upon the professor’s thigh. Moran’s face is still flushed and his lips look wet and red whilst a single bead of pearly fluid still drips from the end of his now slowly softening prick, into the little pool on the floor between his legs. Of course he has already swallowed the professor’s release, removing any trace of this from sight; he does not require any encouragement to do so and he seems to care nothing for that taste which Moriarty finds so abhorrent. He seems perhaps even to relish it, strange as that idea remains to the professor.

     Moran grins as he looks up at the professor before he licks his lips. His own breathing sounds a little uneven and for another second or two he seems unable to think of anything coherent to say, so he says nothing. He only rests his cheek against Moriarty’s leg. “Professor,” he says finally.

     Moriarty reaches down again to brush his fingers through Moran’s hair once more, letting Moran turn from resting against his knee to nuzzling against his hand. “My dearest Sebastian.”

     “James,” Moran says, smiling against the professor’s palm, and Moriarty feels a sweet pang of pleasure run through him at the use of his first name.

     They remain there for a couple of minutes in peaceable silence. Moran rests his cheek against Moriarty’s leg while Moriarty continues to idly stroke Moran’s hair. It is not a particularly comfortable position, certainly not an elegant one either, but still it seems so very serene and pleasant to be together like this. When the time comes for them to have to move again it is with some reluctance that they do so.

    As he tucks himself back into his underclothes and straightens up his clothing, Moriarty glances at Moran. Looking very composed again after his climax, even so there is still a slight _softness_ about Moran that is pleasing to the professor’s eye – a little less stiffness to his posture perhaps; a little less tension in his muscles; he seems that bit less guarded still. It is a shame, he thinks, that as soon as they unlock the door and go out into the wider world again things will return to their more usual state. Though the professor hardly wishes for things to be like this permanently, still it is sad to think that in front of almost everyone else in the world they must appear so aloof; they can never fully relax and he can never show Moran the deep affection he feels for him or receive affection in return save for when they are absolutely alone in private.

    The colonel, realising he is being watched, darts a glance up at Moriarty as he finishes rearranging his own clothing, and without realising it he has much the same thought. The professor is still unmistakably his master; still very much controlling and controlled, but in private and particularly in their moments of great intimacy that air of austerity about him is lessened. He seems younger when that lock of hair falls casually over his forehead instead of being severely slicked back; more boyish with that amused glimmer in his eyes. Moran knows perfectly well that Moriarty cannot possibly reveal this softer side to his nature to others too often and in part he is very glad that this is something reserved solely for him, and yet… even so there are moments when he wishes they did not have to have all this secrecy about everything they do and that others could get to see how much the professor truly cherishes him. Moran has happily broken many laws in his life, but that prohibiting and criminalising fully consensual acts between grown men is the one that chafes at him the most; the one he feels less pleasure in breaking and more bitterness that such a thing is even illegal in the first place. He is no fool; he can clearly understand why murder or theft or assault is illegal, but sodomy?

    “You made a proper mess on the floor there,” Moriarty observes with a raise of his eyebrow, cutting into Moran’s thoughts before they threaten to become too dark. He has sensed from a slight narrowing of Moran’s eyes and a tensing of his jaw what sort of course his lover’s musings are beginning to take. “It will not do, Sebastian.”

      Moran is perfectly aware that he is being teased and not truly chided though and he laughs, the sound seeming like sunshine bursting through the gloom once more as his eyes glitter with amusement. “Can’t ‘elp it if you make me spend like a bloody stallion, can I?” He grins slyly.

    “I suppose not.” Moriarty flashes him a small smile as he opens the upper desk drawer and removes one of the rags he customarily uses for wiping down the blackboard. “Here.” He presses the rag into Moran’s hand. “You had best make a proper job of cleaning up.”

    “And if I don’t make a good job of it will you discipline me, _sir_?” Moran asks, still grinning. “Will you bend me over the desk and pull down my trousers and cane my arse?”

    Moriarty rolls his eyes. “Get on with it,” he says in mock exasperation, though he hardly troubles to conceal his smile at his lover’s playfulness. “And I am not in the habit of caning anyone,” he points out, standing over Moran as the colonel gets down on his knees again to clean the floor.

   “You’ll make an exception for me though.” Moran chuckles to himself as he wipes up the mess.

    Moriarty attempts to remain serious for a second but then laughs softly. “Perhaps.” He drops his hand to rest briefly on the back of Moran’s neck, to stroke his fingers over the bumps of Moran’s spine just above his collar, trailing them up into the short hair at the nape of his neck. He observes how Moran half closes his eyes again; how he tucks in his chin and presses up slightly into the caress; how every action he performs around Moran achieves a reaction from him. “If you are a good boy,” he says in a low voice, managing to elicit a faint residual twitch from Moran’s prick, before Moriarty turns away, smirking, and wanders over to the bookcase.

    Moran laughs, both at his body’s own inability to remain unreactive in the face of the professor’s dominance and at Moriarty’s seemingly casual behaviour. When he stands up again Moriarty is standing there close to the window while perusing one of his books, caught in a beam of sunlight that has managed to sneak in under one of the blinds which is only half lowered. Though the light plunges him largely into shadow, it also brilliantly outlines him, forming a bright corona around him, and it makes Moran’s breath catch slightly in his throat to look at him. He wishes very earnestly that he could do justice to this brief vision before him with paints or pencil but alas he lacks the talent for that.

    “You are staring again,” Moriarty remarks, his mouth quirking up at the side, without even looking up from his book.

    “Sorry sir.” Moran shifts on the spot.

    “I would tell you not to make a habit of this but that would be pointless, would it not?”

    “Yes sir, I suspect it would.” With the soiled rag folded up tightly in his fist, Moran saunters over to the professor. “I’ll be off then, shall I?”

    “If you like.” Moriarty still fails to look up, feigning utter indifference, so Moran tilts his head, lowering his face into Moriarty’s field of vision until, with a laugh, Moriarty is forced to meet his gaze. “You are recklessly endangering us both with your insistence on coming here so often,” the professor points out.

     “You wouldn’t like me so if I wasn’t; you’d soon get bored of me,” Moran says. “This way though, keeps things interesting, don’t it?”

    “Mm, well, perhaps you have a point.” Moriarty at last snaps his book shut with his left hand and drops that hand down by his side, sliding his right around Moran’s upper body, drawing him closer. Unwilling to kiss his lover on the mouth so soon after he has performed fellatio, the professor has no such reluctance about pressing a kiss to Moran’s forehead. The colonel seems to savour this just as much as if Moriarty had kissed his lips again anyway. “Go along then; I will see you tonight.” Just as Moran makes to pull away though, Moriarty brushes a strand of the colonel’s hair off his forehead, putting it neatly back into place.

   “’Til later then.” Moran shoves the rag into his pocket and strolls towards the door.

    “Oh and Moran?” Moriarty calls just as Moran turns the key in the lock. He gestures with his eyes towards the desk. “Your hat.”

     “Of course.” Moran darts back to retrieve it, flipping it up onto his head and setting it at a slightly jaunty angle as if he is some singing and dancing top-hatted stage performer, which gains him another small affectionate eye-roll from Moriarty. Then with another sly grin directed towards the professor, Moran has slipped out of the door, closing it gently behind him, and Moriarty is left alone to muse upon his lover’s peculiarities.


End file.
